by J S Landor
A ton of masonry and wood hit the cobbles with a crash. By some miracle, it missed the statue of William Godley. Grim-faced, he stood amidst the clouds of dust with one finger raised, as if giving the creature a stern rebuke for the damage.
The wolf blinked. A piece of loose brick teetered on the edge of the wrecked building. A second later, the wind sent it hurling at the statue. Pieces of stone exploded in every direction. Godley’s lecturing arm had been removed at the elbow.
And so it went on. Wherever the wolf directed his gaze the wind gathered force. In the high street, the roof of the undertaker’s rattled ominously. The wolf padded slowly towards the building and a gust lifted the entire roof. Cracks appeared in the walls, tiles flew like bats and, from the loft, an avalanche of coffins tumbled onto the road.
One of them smashed straight through the plate-glass window of the jeweller’s shop, setting off an alarm. No one took any notice. Most people were huddled indoors with their heads buried under pillows. Even the police had decided to sit tight.
For an opportunist thief, it was perfect timing. A gloved hand reached furtively into the window display and removed a diamond ring worth more than a thousand pounds.
The wind softened as the wolf listened to the receding tap of heels on the pavement. Then, from somewhere over the rooftops, came the sound of a bird screeching, a harsh cry like an unnatural laugh: ‘Tsche, tsche, tsche …’
Chapter 12
When Jack woke next morning, the house was strangely silent. A shaft of sunlight streamed through a chink in the curtains like a beam from a film projector and landed squarely on a tiny blue horse which pranced on its hind legs behind a display of model motorbikes. The ornament shone with such intensity it looked almost alive.
He pulled the duvet around his ears and turned away. The horse had been a gift from his parents, a souvenir which had arrived after the accident in a crate of their belongings. He could do without that particular memory.
He tossed and turned a while before realising he wasn’t a bit sleepy. Instead of his usual grogginess, he felt oddly energised. He stared at the ceiling, trying to figure it out. Nothing major had happened. It wasn’t his birthday. Or Christmas. It wasn’t even the weekend. So why did he have butterflies in his stomach like he was on the brink of something special?
All night long he’d dreamt he was stuck on the ship. Lily had been there too, tugging his hand and trying to show him the way out. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave, not while he kept hearing the voice: ‘Mum, Dad …’
He cringed at the recollection. This time it hadn’t been Lily calling. The voice had been his.
He got up and went over to the horse. Made of the deepest blue crystal, it seemed to paw at the air as if about to bolt. And on its back, where the saddle might have been, a tiny engraved J with two pinprick eyes smiled like a face.
Jack blew out his cheeks in a long sigh. Charlie had been right. He still missed his parents far more than he cared to admit. Why had he let himself get so angry with her? Blunt and his mob had a lot to answer for. Even when they weren’t there they’d managed to stir up trouble.
He glanced at his bedside clock. What the heck? ‘Nan!’ he yelled. ‘It’s ten o’clock!’ Why hadn’t she woken him? School had started a whole hour and a half ago. He grabbed his dressing gown and thundered down the stairs, bellowing her name.
The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was silent. There was mud everywhere, wet towels on the floor and a mass of bottles, jars and books on the counter. Propped up against the kettle, a scribbled note read: ‘Gone to vet, back soon. (No school today – power cuts.)’
No school? A roar filled the kitchen as Jack punched the air: Yes! One of his wishes had actually come true. He thought of the magpie ruining his game. Tsche, tsche, tsche … Now it was his turn to laugh. For the time being, at least, he could forget all about Blunt.
A large, battered book with curling pages lay open on the chopping block. He read the title: Old Saxon Remedies. A handful of bluish-purple flowers was scattered beside it, and a stone pestle and mortar stained with the same vivid colour sat in the sink.
He had just picked up one of the flower heads to smell it when the kitchen door burst open.
‘Wolfsbane!’ shouted Nan, struggling in with a bag of shopping in one hand and a wicker basket in the other.
Jack froze as if she’d pronounced a curse.
‘Aconitum napellus to be more precise. Put it down. At once! Now go wash your hands. That plant’s poisonous. They used to paint it on arrows when they hunted wolves.’
Jack rushed to the sink, turning the tap on full blast. Meanwhile, the sound of frantic clawing came from inside the basket.
‘It has medicinal uses too,’ Nan continued. She undid the leather fastening on the basket and opened the lid. ‘But only if you know what you’re doing.’
A groggy head appeared. Odin blinked hard as if amazed to find himself home.
‘What happened to him?’ exclaimed Jack, still scrubbing at his fingers.
Odin mewed pathetically. A large patch of fur had been shaved from his neck and a long wound held together by several black stitches stretched round his throat.
‘We had rather a hair-raising night,’ said Nan. She lifted the cat from the basket and put him in front of the stove, where he turned several circles before flopping down. ‘That frog rain was only the start. I’ve never seen such a storm! After you ran out on us I thought I’d better drive poor Charlie home. Her bike’s still in the garage.’
Jack lowered his eyes. He already felt bad enough without the pointed look Nan had just given him.
‘On the way back, I could hardly see where I was going,’ she went on. ‘Odin came out of nowhere, jumped on the car bonnet and bounced off the other side. When I got out he was lying in the road; his heart had stopped. That’s why we needed this desperate remedy.’ With a sniff, she scooped the leftover wolfsbane into the bin.
‘But that’s crazy! What on earth was he playing at?’ Jack stared at Odin, who gave another mew. ‘He must have landed badly. That cut looks nasty.’
‘Actually, it’s a bite of some kind, which is why we went to the vet. I know about herbal remedies but I’m no expert at stitches. The wound’s less than an inch from his jugular. Any closer and …’
Jack gazed at his grandmother. She looked pale and somehow smaller than usual. He turned to Odin, who was feebly licking his paw. ‘That’s two of your nine lives then,’ he said.
‘How do you mean?’ said Nan.
‘Remember when I fell from the tree? If you hadn’t been there, we’d both have broken our necks. He’s a nutter.’
‘He was a kitten, Jack! His experience of climbing was limited, mainly to my best curtains as I recall. He got into trouble, you went to his rescue –’
‘Odin is always getting into trouble.’
‘He’s an adventurer, that’s all.’
Jack frowned. His parents had gone on an adventure and disappeared the very day Odin had taken it into his head to climb the biggest tree in the garden. ‘Stupid animal.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Well, he is.’
‘No, he isn’t! He’s brave. If it hadn’t been for him, I might be in hospital. Or worse. He forced me to slow down. Otherwise, I’d never have seen that …’ Nan trailed off.
‘What?’
‘That “thing” in the middle of the road. I only just braked in time.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It looked like – I don’t know – a wolf.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes! I mean, no.’ Nan hadn’t meant to say anything about her premonition. Jack must never know of it. ‘There are no wolves in this country,’ she said firmly. ‘Not any more. It was a dog. Alsatian probably.’
‘Could it have attacked Odin?’
/> ‘I – I s’pose so.’
They fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts.
Then Jack said, ‘So you think Odin saved your life?’
Nan’s face brightened. ‘Yes! In my opinion, he’s a hero.’
Jack squatted down, his back against the warm stove, and touched one of Odin’s white paws. A loud purring like a tractor engine started up. While he watched Nan unpack the shopping, he thought back to that bleakest of days and suddenly felt glad he’d rescued the cat from the tree. Odin had just returned the favour.
***
Sunlight drenched the table as they sat down to a late breakfast of pancakes with maple syrup. It felt like a celebration and once more it seemed to Jack like his life had left its usual path.
By his third helping, however, he couldn’t help noticing that Nan had barely eaten a thing. ‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘Hmm …? Oh yes, fine. Absolutely fine.’
‘Was the storm really bad?’
‘The worst in a hundred years they’re saying. It’s a miracle you slept through it. There are trees down everywhere. Looks like a bomb’s exploded in the town centre.’
‘Wow!’
‘The supermarket was a battle zone. And some villain even helped himself to a diamond ring from Amos’s.’
‘No!’ Jack wished he’d woken earlier. He’d missed out on all the excitement.
‘He reached through the broken window and just took it. Can you believe it? What kind of character does that?’
Jack could think of at least three or four but he wasn’t going to mention them. Instead he asked, ‘So how long will school be closed?’ Please, oh please, let it be a week.
‘Until the electricity comes back on,’ said Nan, ‘which could be a while.’
Jack glanced at the lamp on the sideboard. ‘But it is on.’
‘For us yes, but the rest of the town’s cut off, including next door.’
‘Really?’
‘Strange, eh?’
‘Maybe it’s because we’re the last house.’
‘Shouldn’t make any difference. We’re all on the same supply line.’ Nan stood up, pushing her breakfast away. ‘Anyway, I’m not complaining. It means I can get on.’
‘You should rest,’ said Jack.
‘Not right now. You go amuse yourself. I’ve got mountains to do. You know what they say: “You can sleep when you’re dead”.’
Jack frowned. Nan had come out with that one before. Plenty of times. Only, on this occasion, something about the way she said it sounded decidedly morbid.
***
He didn’t know what had got into her, but that day Nan began baking like there was no tomorrow. The house filled with all kinds of delicious smells, the windows ran with condensation, and when he ventured into the kitchen he found her pink-cheeked and distracted, hardly aware he was even there. Fortunately, he was used to these eccentric moods and so left her to it, retreating upstairs to do some work of his own.
His head still buzzed with the shipwreck, memories so vivid it was hard to believe they weren’t real. You’re Jack Tideswell, you are, a piece of bloomin’ magic! Bill’s words and his instruction to look after Lily had taken root inside him and he felt bad he’d lost her to the sea. He needed to convince himself The Empress didn’t exist.
He switched on his computer, wondering again why only their house should have any power. The blue-domed lighthouse appeared, followed a few seconds later by a fanfare of trumpets. He grinned. Mac the Quack was back in business. The tiny duck marched on in dark glasses and stood in his secret agent pose, tapping one webbed foot.
To Jack’s relief, his internet connection worked straight away. Within minutes he found an Empress of Canada, an Empress of England and an Empress of Japan. But none of them had anything to do with his ship. And he was surprised to learn that ocean liners of that sort had stopped being built years ago, when air travel took over.
Next he searched the files of numerous shipping companies. The Empress appeared nowhere. Nor was there any record of the Pentland lighthouse ever failing. In fact, its homepage boasted that throughout its hundred-year history, the light had never gone out.
There wasn’t a scrap of information to go on. ‘Bad dream. Forget it,’ he told himself.
Outside, a bird whistled cheerfully. Then something in the porch below went ‘thump’ and the doorbell rang. He waited for Nan to answer, knowing it couldn’t be Charlie. She loved their old-fashioned bell so much she always hung on the cord so it clanged at least a dozen times. This person rang only once – a loud and purposeful summons.
‘Nan! It’s for you!’
Below him, the radio continued to play at full volume. With a sigh, he tramped down the stairs.
As the door opened, the wind lifted his hair. A carpet of swirling leaves swept into the hall and a low chuckle came from the porch. ‘Afternoon. Boisterous weather we’re having!’
A tall man in a battered trench coat, which fell almost to his feet, stood on the doorstep. His face was shaded by the brim of an oilskin hat and on the ground next to him lay a large leather bag. Jack thought he looked like a travelling salesman.
‘Now then. Would you be so kind as to direct me to Osmaston Hall?’ The voice was rich and smooth.
‘Er, yes,’ Jack replied. ‘There are two ways. You can either go round by the road or across the fields by the wood. It’s quicker across the fields but …’
‘Oh, I much prefer a direct route. Far better to travel as the crow flies.’ The man took off his hat and brushed away a few raindrops. His face was tanned and unshaven as though he’d been on the road for some time, and there were deep lines around his blue eyes.
‘Well, in that case, you should go over the stile further up the lane, then walk diagonally across two fields until you get to the river. If you stick to the footpath, you eventually get to a footbridge. But that takes ages. I usually go across the stepping stones. Then I scrabble up the bank by hanging on to the tree roots and …’
The man had one eyebrow raised and his blue eyes sparkled. Jack realised he was being long-winded. He couldn’t help laughing and in the next breath he found himself saying, ‘You know, it’s probably easier if I show you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, it takes longer to explain. Really, it’s not very far.’
‘That would be most kind.’ The man held out his hand. ‘My name is Jago Flyn.’
‘Jack Tideswell.’
Smiling broadly, they shook hands and Jack noticed a power in the man’s grip that felt like an electric current.
Chapter 13
It was a warm autumn afternoon. The smell of wet grass and rotting crab apples filled the air as they tramped along the hedgerow towards the river. The last of the rain clouds had disappeared and somewhere overhead an invisible songbird trilled its heart out.
An assault course of fallen branches, broken fence posts and vast muddy puddles lay along their route. It seemed to Jack as if the storm had created a huge adventure playground. He took great delight in leading the way through it, clambering and jumping and splashing.
The stranger had no problem keeping up. His stride was strong and athletic and he made light work of every obstacle. Jack eyed the wrinkled, weather-beaten face. Perhaps he wasn’t as old as he looked.
‘So do you live round here, Mr Flyn?’
‘No.’
The squish and squelch of their boots was deafening as they ventured across a waterlogged bridleway.
‘Are you going to stay at Osmaston Hall then?’
‘No, I’m here on business.’
‘Oh … what do you do?’
Jago Flyn extracted a foot from the quagmire with a great sticky slurp. ‘You know, this sounds like twenty questions,’ he said, his eyes glinting with mischief. ‘Tell you what. I’ll give yo
u three guesses. And do call me Jago.’
Jack couldn’t resist the challenge. He gave Jago a long head-to-toe stare and focussed on the battered trench coat. It reminded him of pictures of the first world war.
‘Um, are you in the army? A soldier?’
Jago exploded with laughter. ‘Ha! Insolent rascal!’ He spoke in a blustering fashion, like an old army colonel. ‘I’ll have you court-martialled for that. I may look like I’ve been in the wars – and I am scarred by life’s slings and arrows – but I have never, upon my soul, ever served my country.’
Jack grinned. ‘All right then.’ He stared at the weather-worn face. ‘What about a sailor? You look like you’ve been at sea.’
Jago seemed to find this funnier still. Now he sounded like Long John Silver: ‘A salty sea dog, eh? Nice try, but wrong again. Yer about to walk the plank, Jack me lad. Only one more guess. What’s it to be? Tinker, tailor? Soldier, sailor?’
Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, thought Jack. But none of those seemed appropriate. He glanced down at the hefty leather bag. ‘What’s in there?’
‘Arrr … the tools of me trade,’ said Jago, still playing the pirate. ‘And no, ya can’t look.’
Jack frowned. He had another idea, but this one was a wild guess. ‘I know,’ he began uncertainly.
‘Go on then. Spit it out.’
‘You’re an actor!’
‘Ha! Now what makes ya say that, me hearty?’
‘Your voice, of course. You can do different voices.’
‘Very clever indeed. And close, begad!’ said Jago with a wink. ‘But wrong!’
***
The sound of rushing water was deafening as they neared the river. The storm had turned the meandering Churn into a raging torrent which spat flumes of spray against its grassy banks.
Jack scratched his head. His usual route over the stepping stones lay several feet below the water’s surface. However, the storm had provided an alternative crossing point: a fallen tree which straddled the river, stretching its long limbs up the bank on the other side. It looked risky though. He eyed Jago’s heavy-duty boots, hardly the best footwear for balancing on a slippery tree trunk. The bag would be a nuisance too.
